


Breathe

by plinys



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Physical Therapy, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 21:31:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4035298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plinys/pseuds/plinys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A knight is nothing without his sword, and a Kingsman is nothing without his gun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladyjdee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyjdee/gifts).



> So I got this prompt that I like read once, wrote a fic for, looked back at the prompt and was like "shit I think I missed it" but I hope you enjoy this fic anyways?

 

The doctors give the verdict in solemn tones: “In all likelihood, you’ll never fire a gun properly again.”

The question, _“Then why am I here,”_ is on the edge of his lips, ready to be spoken, but he doesn’t vocalise it because he can only imagine what answer they’ll give in return.

A knight is nothing without his sword, and a Kingsman is nothing without his gun.

\---

He’s been a Kingsman longer than he was ever anything else.  

Trying to remember a life before, when a gun didn’t fit easily into his palm, when he wasn’t ready to travel across the world at a drop of the hat, when he didn’t have to worry if every moment was going to be his last, seems rather impossible.

“It’s just muscle memory,” he tells himself, psyching up for the inevitable moment. “As easy as breathing.”

And yet, breathing seems impossible as his fingers curl around the gun, too stiff in all the wrong places and too light in the others.

He doesn’t even have to point the gun at the target to know he’ll be off his mark, but he does anyways, praying to a god he’s long since stopped believing in for nothing short of a miracle.

Not a single shot hits the paper at the end of the range.

\---

“Breathe. You’re having a panic attack.”

“I am breathing.”

“Yeah, bruv, sure looks like it.”

\---

The physiotherapist insists that repetition is the key.

So he clenches and unclenches his fist, when all he wants to do is hit something.

He used to be able to let off steam, demand the next mission far enough away from his aggressor, or just go down to the gym and work himself to the point where his body refused to move any longer.  Instead there’s a ball resting in his hand that he was told to squeeze because repetition is the key, and some mornings he wakes up with the rest of him refusing to move.

Those are the worst days, when he feels like he’s first waking up all over again, his world tilting on its axis, pain spreading out from his head down to the tips of his fingers, and he can’t remember how to move.

Perhaps it would have been better had he stayed there on the ground in Kentucky.

\---

“You nearly died, Harry. We all thought you was dead for a bit there. I know this is fucking bollocks, but it’s better than being dead, yeah?”

“Is it really better?”

“Don’t you fucking say that, don’t you dare!”

\---

He stares down at the page for far too long, the unfamiliar shapes of the letters staring back up at him. “My handwriting is different.”

“That’s normal, yeah,” Eggsy offers, coming around to stand by his side. “Your physiotherapist said there might be some changes. I mean it’s practically the same, innit?”

It’s not, not at all. He can see the differences clearly. The loops in letters that used to be there lost now, replaced by stiff lines written by a shaking hand. His signature looks like a forgery, and not even a decent one.

“My handwriting is different,” he repeats slower this time, fingers clenching tightly against the pen too tightly so that releasing it later will be a struggle, the frustration becoming nearly too much.

He adds that to the long list of things he can’t manage to get right anymore.

\---

“You’re getting better, right? That last one hit the target.”

“Please, just stop.”

\---

The worst part of physiotherapy is sitting there afterwards, the minor workout and barely significant movements leaving his body too weak to even hold a cup of tea steady. The proof of that is still on the ground, the cup having sloshed over before he’d overcorrected, and gripped the damn thing so tightly that Eggsy had to come up and loosen his fingers for him.

Frustration mixed with shame created a feeling not unlike anger, but whether it was directed at the world that wronged him or his own body, he couldn’t tell.

“It’s fine,” Eggsy says, fingers massaging his palm, as if that will make the stiffness go away, as though his touch could take all the trouble away. “You’re getting better.”

“You shouldn’t lie to me. I’m not a fool.”

“Course not,” he agrees, “but these things take time, yeah? You were stabbed and in a coma-”

“I’ve been stabbed before,” his voice comes out far too sharp, and the hands that had been holding onto him drop at once.

When he looks up at the boy he’s greeted with a wide eyed, near horrified look which he takes far too long to school back into that politely concerned expression Eggsy’s taken to wearing as of late.

He means to stop, to apologise for his outburst. After all, a gentleman doesn’t take his anger out on others undeserving of it, but instead harsh words spill from his lips.

“I’ve been through all of this before, and it’s never been this hard. What if I never get better? How long before the doctors and therapists realize they can’t fix me? People don’t retire from Kingsman. You either die in the position or-”

Well, there wasn’t really an “or.” Nobody has ever been in this position for as long as he’s been, but he could only imagine what the result would be.

And it wouldn’t be pleasant.

“You should leave.”

“Harry.”

“Please, for my sake.”

\---

“See here’s the thing. You want me to stop caring, yeah? That way you can have your fucking pity party or whatever all on your own, but I’m not fucking going away. I’m staying right here for as long as you need me, as long as it takes until your hands stop shaking and you can do all that badass shit you used to do before. Not ‘cause I owe you or whatever bullshit you like to pretend this is about, but because I fucking care about you and ‘cause you would’ve done the same for me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Except I do.”

\---

It takes time, as these things inevitably do.

A slow process that hardly seems worth the struggle.

But it’s easier going now.

This time when he goes to the shooting range, he’s not alone. There’s a warm presence behind him, reaching forward to steady his hands when they start to shake. Fingers gently resting against the back of his, holding him in place, so there’s no retreating this time.

“You know I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve been alive.”

That gets him a laugh in return, but the hands don’t pull away. Instead they stay, a steady, constant reassurance.

“Yeah, you’re a real charmer, Harry.”

He finally remembers to breathe, when his shot hits the mark.

 


End file.
